


Birthday

by Sukei



Series: Slipping Out of Lovelessness [1]
Category: Hello Charlotte (Video Games)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Gore, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Crying, Dismemberment, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Enemies to Friends, Families of Choice, How Huxley sux are ya, Human Experimentation, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Sorry, Isolation, Loss of Limbs, Mental Breakdown, Not Really Character Death, Pain, Rescue, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Unethical Experimentation, Welcome to the Huxley sux club, so much pain and crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24454156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sukei/pseuds/Sukei
Summary: “Ohhh...Oh-kay...”“See, Girl? You’re oh-kay.”She pressed her hands against her bodice, feeling along it as if feeling for the badness in her form. Nothing came besides that warmth, moving from a heated burn and down into a sort of bubbling in her stomach.“Good…” She decided, feeling strong… “Oh…kay…”“So will you say it? ...Just this once?”“Girl...girl yes…” She decided, thumping a little against the door in excitement, practicing a little under her breath and vibrating harshly as she cupped her hands and practically yelled out her name, “Lllll…L-ah-tea…!”“...Lotte…?”“Girl, Lotte!” She agreed, happily swaying to the pretend beat in her head as she hummed her own little party song, “Lotte, Lotte, Lotte~!”He didn’t respond.“Oh-kay?” She pondered, tapping at the door before moving into a steady knock, eventually letting her hand slap against the metal as her knuckles pinkened, wishing she could call out a name she didn’t know, bring back the spectre that had lightened her sixth birthday.But only silence greeted her back. With 365 new marks to match their time. Maybe she was a bad girl after all.Bad Lotte.
Relationships: Bennett & Felix Honikker, Felix Honikker & Henry Huxley, Q84 & Bennett, Q84 & Felix Honikker, Q84 & Florence, Q84 & Henry Huxley, Q84 & Scarlett Eyler
Series: Slipping Out of Lovelessness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919107
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Birthday

Lotte was turning three today. Black ribbons on a picture over their carelessly crafted mantle made from cardboard boxes and haphazardly draped over the kitchen cabinets. Pretty yellow balloons line the entryway, tea is prepared and left on the counter top to be served. Everyone is present, lining a confectionary dessert with fire-hazards to be presented to the tiny toddler currently taking residence in her home, the bodies of her parents long gone.

It was perfect, just like Lotte, and as she sat next to the boiler on her favourite (and only) cushion, she was practically shaking (shuddering) with excitement, heat (cold) rushing up her spine in the damp room as little fists lay pressed against the door’s surface. It was thick, metal, and letting in the barest shaft of light from the top that she could hardly hope to reach with legs so stumpy and small as her own.

Still, Lotte sat with excitement, quiet, still, careful, the perfect little girl ready to attend the perfect little party. Dressed in that patchwork gown of hers, hair matted with just as much shiny metal shavings as it was dirt; to her, it was sparkling and beautiful. She was Paper Princess, white and pure and ready to be blotted with the ink of the outsider world, as all children eventually are.

Little sounds began, the party was starting! It had to be, all that stomping and joyful shouting beginning to flow into her little space. She blinked languidly, willing herself to stay awake, to be grateful and loveable for her special day. She swayed in her spot on her knees, happily leaning to the music’s flow with a picture perfect smile on her tiny little face. She stood up at one point, daringly trying out a little dance on her fragile legs, carefully stamping her feet in the rhythm they made as she waited.

Waited.

Waited.

And waited…

She was _so_ happy! So, so, so, so, so _happy!_ Mom? Dad? Could you see her where she was? Or was it too dark to make out her little footsteps in the glaring darkness? She didn’t giggle aloud, kept it inside for them to hear, ringing around in her little head as finally, _finally,_ the music began to roar, louder and louder and _louder and louder._ Enough so Lotte’s tiny little voice could _screech_ to the high heavens, _roaring_ amongst the sound until she was sure they could hear.

She slipped on her little flats after a few hours, tumbling down and onto her cushion, her head landing with an angry sound as it dashed across the concrete. She was dizzy now, tucked into bed beside the humming machinery as it heated the water for her morning gruel and grits. Still, nothing could ruin this, ruin her beautiful, _wonderful_ party!

Nothing could hurt Charlotte Wiltshire. She _knew_ it!

And tiny, oh-so tiny, happy tears trailed down her face to match the sweat of the pipes as it dribbled down onto her skirts.

So, _so_ happy.

-

Four walls. Pipes lined by twenty-eight connectors and eighty-six joints. One faded cushion, yellow atop the quilted pattern, grey where it touched the floor. One dress, white around the collar and patched with green across dirtied, now grey, fabric.

Two arms, pale, reaching towards the door and over her toes as she stretched.

Two legs, even paler, pointed forwards and screaming with aches.

Two eyes, white, always watching that grey door.

Two ears, missing pieces, tuned out to the sound of fire and dripping water.

One mouth, bitten, lines of dull teeth waiting for their next liquid meal.

One thousand, four hundred, and sixty scars, new and old, blue and purple with bruising.

Two feet, dirtied.

Ten toes, more like nine, missing a few bones.

Two hands, still.

Seven fingers, extended outwards and catching air.

Three stumps, wiggling, but catching nothing.

-

Four years.

She was quiet, like a good girl, and stayed perfectly still as the door swung open. A man with a buck’s face set down the tray just for her, clean and perfect, enough to see her reflection!

She didn’t look.

The buck left soon after, but the door stayed cracked, spilling in that little bit of light as she held out a stump of a pinkie out and drank the grey liquid with gusto.

Today’s flavour was “Rueful Ignorance!”

She counted down the seconds until the five minute mark, and the doctor finally appeared. He was smiling like usual, wearing a face over his usual mask, or so she thought. His dark hair caught her eyes like usual, familiar in the strangest way, but the thought vanished as the doctor brandished a scalpel.

Huxley was careful as always.

“Such a good girl,” he praised, extracting the flesh just beneath her skin and making a little too much eye contact.

“Stay still, now,” he reminded her, despite her perfect behaviour, still as a statute as her shoulder throbbed.

“I’ll return tomorrow,” he let her know, same as every day before.

“Don’t cry,” he said, but she just couldn’t stop.

One thousand, four hundred, and sixty-one.

-

Lotte was turning five today. She was excited, even in the absence of a party, because her photo was hung up again! She felt seen, acknowledged, known, like she was a tenant herself! It was as exciting as it was happy, and if she listened hard, pressing up her head against the door ever-so-carefully…!

Crying! Tears of joy, just like her own! Oh how she _wished_ she knew who it was sobbing alongside her on her special day!

Just kidding!

It was her echoes, quiet like a mouse but screaming to her. The echoes in her head, her own voice, screeching…tearing apart her skull until she _just wanted to-!_

Huxley’s words ripped the thought apart:

“Good girls don’t make a sound. Your banging your head against the wall was quite loud, don’t you think? And the blood made such a mess to clean! Such an inconsiderate, spoiled _princess,_ hmm?”

_“I’m sorry, doctor-”_ She’d tried to say.

“Then don’t do it again.”

_“I promise.”_ She’d tried to pledge.

Lotte was good. Lotte was a _good girl._ Lotte wouldn’t make a mess, wouldn’t make a sound, wouldn’t speak a single one of the seven words she knew, nor the countless numbers.

Lotte was happy, she was turning five today!

...One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-five.

-

Knock knock.

The doctor has the key, why would he be making such a strange sound to get her attention?

Knock knock.

Good girls don’t make sound...right? But then why were they asking her to?

Knock knock.

Please...stop…! She doesn’t know what to do…!

Knock knock.

She can’t...can’t…!

…

Were...were they gone? Was...this her only chance? All she got? Risking it all for what might get her into trouble with the doctor? She couldn’t get in trouble again! Lotte was a good girl! She...

Tap, tap, tap.

She let herself answer, low and quiet like she always should be.

…

Tap…

…

…

...Knock knock.

A response! For her of all people! A response just for Lotte…

“Hello…?”

That wasn’t Huxley.

-

It seemed like almost every day the figure would wait, longer and longer, until the doctor came and went, until the buck came and went…

Knock knock.

It would start, simple, beckoning, and a tempting call she found herself desperate to answer. Just a little tap back, it started out as, then a sound, then a letter, then an entire word…! It was crazy, no, whoever was outside that door was _crazy,_ asking for sounds from a good girl like her, coercing her to answer!

Knock knock.

But like clockwork, she’d answer, waiting out each knock like before, but finding her companion from behind the door was unlikely to tire.

Tap, tap, tap.

And just as they’d never tire of waiting, she’d never leave them with silence.

“You’re here, good,” they’d say, a little hopeful beneath the calm exterior of their analytical language, “Has Huxley been by yet? One for yes, two for no.”

Tap.

“Good.”

Silence…

“Will you say something for me today?”

Huxley’s voice told her not to respond. To be silent and good.

“Yes…” She whispered back, and heard his sound of approval. It was one of her seven words: ‘Yes, doctor, sit, sleep, still, good, girl,’ rounded off nicely by her long list of numbers.

“...Will you tell me your name?”

She felt a burning in her chest, “Sev-en.” She reminded him.

“I know, I know, but… I could help you.”

“Still...girl…” Lotte tried, feeling the warmth grow...

“Does it sound like a number, Girl?” He’d taken to calling her that in lue of a title.

“Doctor...sixty...five…” That was what he called her, ‘Something sixty five,’

“I mean rip out the syllables you need,” he instructed, and she made a grunt of confusion, “Ah, maybe you could say a word with me…”

“Yes…”

“Like this: Oh-kay.”

“Ohhh...Oh-kay...”

“See, Girl? You’re oh-kay.”

She pressed her hands against her bodice, feeling along it as if feeling for the badness in her form. Nothing came besides that warmth, moving from a heated burn and down into a sort of bubbling in her stomach.

“Good…” She decided, feeling strong… “Oh…kay…”

“So will you say it? ...Just this once?”

“Girl...girl yes…” She decided, thumping a little against the door in excitement, practicing a little under her breath and vibrating harshly as she cupped her hands and practically yelled out her name, “Lllll…L-ah-tea…!”

“...Lotte…?”

“Girl, Lotte!” She agreed, happily swaying to the pretend beat in her head as she hummed her own little party song, “Lotte, Lotte, Lotte~!”

He didn’t respond.

“Oh-kay?” She pondered, tapping at the door before moving into a steady knock, eventually letting her hand slap against the metal as her knuckles pickened, wishing she could call out a name she didn’t know, bring back the spectre that had lightened her sixth birthday.

But only silence greeted her back. With 365 new marks to match their time. Maybe she was a bad girl after all.

Bad Lotte.

-

When Lotte was even younger, she thinks maybe she did bad things. She recalls the green stains on cabinets, the mighty yellow of her captors as they hit her over the head and dragged her by her long, long hair and down the hall. She breathed in poison to see them every day, she watched herself be deconstructed to find company, wore her own blood to find attention; their gaze, their eyes, their ire, anything to substitute love.

They’re all such vague memories, angry memories, even, cutting open her heart with each stupid little choice a bad girl could make. Replacing their food, then drinking their poison, insulting them, then taking their hits, crying too loud, then losing her voice box, erasing their labour of love, then losing any affection she may have had.

Such a slippery slope Lotte had taken...

Dragging a stuffed bunny behind her on the dirty laminate and raising her arms up for the buck like a needy toddler...then her hair was torn from its scalp in a swift, painful motion, screams unanswered by anything but vicious growls.

Following around the silhouette of a yellow suit and making a real friend...only for him to bleed out in oil on the bathroom floor after slipping on her vomit, leaving her feeling nothing and everything all at once.

Playfully punching at the pink-haired boy’s shoulder for days and days until the yellow boy finally told her it hurt, finally told her it bruised, then took her apart in return….the pink boy never looked her in the eyes again, haunted by her corpse.

Until she said, “I’m sorry,” for the umpteenth time...and they pretended not to hear her, like she wasn’t even real, and then she screeched and sobbed until someone finally silenced her after hours of sleeplessness that night.

In the end, causing pain was all she could think of anymore, it was all she knew, all she was good at, and all that had ever been given back.

Lotte knew pain better than anyone.

Nothing could hurt Experiment A65. She _knew_ it.

-

365 marks in silence.

Until Lotte’s seventh birthday finally came.

She wished it matched her remaining fingers, but with a scant five left that was no longer possible. It _would’ve_ matched her toes a year earlier, but she could hardly count the stump below her ankle as any more than one.

It had been hard to see it go, almost as much as it was painful.

Lotte no longer danced, though, she didn’t feel much of an urge to do so in the first place.

The House was silent, so Lotte was silent. No parties with black ribbons and festive balloons, no shouts to match, each year had grown quieter than the last, but now it remained so much so that she could practically _hear_ her limbs shaking, and each scant breath from her mouth.

One lung, or so the doctor had said, made it quite hard to keep up, lately.

She missed the door ghost, of which she was starting to doubt the existence of almost as much as her memories of the pink and yellow boys, same with their taller, blue...something. She was Girl, so she wasn’t sure what the other would be… Not that imaginary memories of imaginary people like them really mattered all that much.

So Lotte kept breathing, her oldest and only hobby, counting, being quite the efficient guide for such a motion. If she could see better, maybe she’d still morbidly count down her fingers, (three on the left and two on the right), but her vision had been failing lately, too. It didn’t matter much, though, not with how dull everything had been as of late. Was this the punishment for bad girls? Greyness? Lotte would hardly be the person to answer _any_ question, much less one like that.

Right now, all she knew were four walls, the boiler beside her, silent for once, and the pipes above, not even a drop hitting the floor of the damp space. There was _nothing,_ and when there was such nothing, it was hard to say what existed and what did not.

So, she reached out.

Walls? Still there.

Boiler? Cold, metal, and solid.

Pipes? Wet.

Lotte? Heart beating, lungs inflating, teeth chattering.

...Door? ...Shut. Always shut.

But in her musing, that’s when she realised what was different.

Cushion? Gone.

Her hands practically scraped against the cool floor, gripping and grasping at every surface in search of the little pillow in case her faulty eyes missed its outline.

Nothing.

It wasn’t there. Not in a single centimeter of her tiny little box…

Her prison.

Lotte’s...prison…

Was this what hopelessness feels like? The end of the burning sensation once and for all, the silence smothering her form and demanding she stay still and cold with it even as her body collapsed?

Was Lotte going to die here? Without the barest comfort, shrouded in unknowns and left unheard until she’s finally taken apart, once and for all?

Good girls didn’t pitch fits.

Stayed quiet and still.

Did as they were told.

But Lotte…

She tilted her head towards the ceiling, low and suffocating as it lined her cell, tracing the little lines with leftover fingers in the air, and letting her eyes bleed out clear liquid until she could trace them no more.

And Lotte-

On the night of her seventh birthday-

Surrounded by silence-

_Screamed._

-

It was raw and guttural, what echoed through the House, desperate and terrifyingly loud, like an animal making their last plea for help before their slaughter.

Baldwin saw a sixteen year-old girl playing with his “twin,” then a corpse in the bathroom, covered in oil.

Bennett saw a sixteen year-old girl raising her fist and drawing it back until the form was released like a rubber band, her knuckles landing directly into the screen of a TV just as his favourite show came on.

Florence saw a sixteen year-old girl marching through the lab like she owned it with a metal baseball bat as her boss cursed her out for god knows what this time.

Felix saw a sixteen year-old girl punching his arm, saw himself peering into the mirror and poking bitterly at the black and blue that lined it.

  
  


Baldwin heard a sixteen year-old girl begging for medical help.

Bennett heard a sixteen year-old girl sobbing between the advertisements.

Florence heard a sixteen year-old girl screaming and then silenced.

Felix heard a sixteen year-old girl say he should be valued to his uncle.

  
  


...Felix heard a six year-old girl choke out a dead girl’s name.

Heard a dead girl tap out a tentative rhythm when he’d knocked.

Heard a living girl and ran when she’d knocked after him.

Heard the girl he thought he’d killed when the boiler room had been empty.

And he heard her in the basement.

-

Lotte blinked, once, twice, three times, meeting the cold metal of some sort of chute at her side, finding insulated pipes above connecting to not-so shattered tanks. Finding herself being dragged from out of an automatic door, sealing shut firmly behind her with a seam down the center. Still screaming, still flailing as the figure tugged at her hair in an all too familiar grip, and finally, _finally_ hearing a sound besides herself in the silence, the fall of boots on iron floors and drains.

She felt _alive,_ her arm languidly bleeding as it caught on the sharper edges of the floor, stinging with a whole new kind of pain, one more akin to skinned knees than scalpel scars and the digging motions of a clamp.

That’s when her head stopped ringing, and she finally realised the doctor was the figure, and he was screaming at her to stop before he silenced her.

Lamb “meat” Wolf.

She flailed harder, weak arms brandished against his own gloved appendages as they held fast and jerked her about by white strands. She hooked her remaining foot against a grate, feeling the ligament tear as he pulled harder and harder, growling to meet her own, far more animalistic sounds.

“No!” She screeched, “No, no, no, no, no!”

“Quiet!” He demanded, and she shook her head again and again.

“Liar!” She called him, remembering the word from one of his complaints, “Liar! Liar to Lotte!”

She seethed, bending her body as well as she could to bite at his arms, he lost yet more composure, bottling a series of swears as Lotte wormed herself further away from him, “Lotte won’t! ...I...I won’t!”

She won’t. No more. She won’t!

“A65, I _trusted_ you to be quiet,” he insisted, back under a calm facade, “If you had been _good,_ I wouldn’t have to do this.”

“Liar!” She growled again, twisting away from his offered hands and finally managing to latch her fingers onto the nearby terminal long enough to hoist her body upwards and balance on it.

“Hurt, pain, hurt, but _not_ dead!” Lotte told him, backing away rapidly and scrambling back as he slowly approached.

“Now where did you learn all these words, hmm? We had our seven, didn’t we, A65?”

“No!” She practically sobbed out her refusal, backing up to the metal door and beginning to bang on the solid surface, thumping harshly against the surface and pressing her fingers against every possible button on the keypad.

“It won’t open for you, A65, I wouldn’t advise wasting your time.”

She was desperate, and even knowing doors never opened for her, she knocked her entire body against its surface, “No! No, no, _no!”_

Huxley seemed smug as he slowly reached her, “I’m afraid we can’t go back to our former arrangement. Just hold out your hand and I’ll make it painless.”

Lotte could feel the sobs wracking her lungs, burning through her face and throat as her expression begged for pity she knew he wouldn’t grant, _“Please…!”_

“Your hand, A65,” he insisted, extending his own, palm side up.

She averted her eyes, still whimpering her refusals under her breath as she pressed herself as far away from him as possible.

“You won’t feel any more discomfort in the incubation tank,” he said, removing his mask with the opposite hand to meet her eyes, “I _promise.”_

“No... _more,”_ she begged, letting her left hand shakily move to meet his own as her right stayed braced against the metal to keep her standing.

Their fingers brushed for the briefest of seconds, barely enough for her to see him begin to try and grab her wrist-

The moment broke with a resounding _pound_ of metal against metal, the rev of a chainsaw meeting the noise with its own, creating a searing impact of sparks and raw sound. Her ears felt liquidy, but the doctor was worse, gloved hands moving to cover the sides of his head, giving Lotte a moment to meet his chest with her intact leg and let adrenaline carry her towards the sound, to the odd contraption of metal meeting the ceiling-

Ladder. It was a ladder with a hatch atop, a hatch that was quickly being torn off its hinges.

_“Lotte!”_ The door ghost screamed, and she felt her mouth drop open, eyes turning wide as she realised what this meant.

This was a rescue. A rescue for _Lotte._

_“Lotte!”_ It screeched again, and she knew what she had to do.

She answered.

**_“Oh-kay!”_ **

And the hatch fell, scraping against the ladder on its way down in a shower of sparks before colliding with the glass tank below, pieces littering the floor in slow motion as the light above illuminated each sparkling remnant with yellow, blue, _and pink._

And for once, she wasn’t lying about _happy_ tears.

Lotte was okay.

-

Huxley was furious through Lotte’s elation, stepping towards her from behind as the other tenants descended the ladder, and into Huxley’s secret lab. He was quick to displace her just as she had him, yanking her away from the rescue party just as Bennett was helping down a sickly Felix, each guarded by Florence’s steady form who stared him down. Baldwin was quick to follow up, foregoing the safer route to jump directly down the passage with a resounding _stomp!_ He seemed naked without his twin, but had steeled his features regardless of the separation.

Lotte quivered as Huxley drew a spare syringe to her neck, holding her steady in his grip as the group stood together against their boss, each still clad in yellow hazmat suits, somehow, they seemed far more united right then than had been under Huxley.

“So, this time it isn’t a rogue teenager ruining me?” The doctor drawls, finding the smallest amount of amusement at the parallels.

Each tenant seemed curious, but it was Florence who took the first step, “You were angry at her the night before she died,” she stated, the question left unsaid.

“What was that game she enjoyed? ‘You won’t play, I destroy your research,’” Huxley spat, shaking Lotte firmly to tell her to stop shivering and tightening an arm around her neck to keep them both still, “Miss Wiltshire destroyed this entire lab.”

Florence’s face tightened into a glare, “So you killed her?”

“I did,” he said simply, smiling, “The original, that is.”

“The original…?” Felix inquired, thoughts whirring in his head.

“I found Miss Wiltshire beside herself in her bedroom, standing over one of her corpses that had been fashioned by myself and Aiden to resemble a... _friend,_ of hers. It was easy enough with the Linq®.”

“Of course, her screaming grew bothersome, she was even more annoying than usual, and there is only so much robotic replicas can do,” he carefully lowered the syringe to lift the hem of her dress, revealing the heavy stitches along Lotte’s thigh, “By my research, younger children are _far_ more malleable to coercion, and our Miss Wiltshire was plenty willing to listen when someone provided her with attention-based rewards.”

Felix didn’t like the way Huxley eyed him while saying it, nor the leftover, bright pink hair that lined the floor of the lab, eerily similar to his own.

“Disgusting,” Bennett decided, taking his hand off Felix’s shoulder to step in front of him.

“Hmm?” The doctor hummed, “You wanted her dead, didn’t you?”

The group doesn't respond, and Huxley smirks, “She would be taken apart and disposed of in time, had you not interfered.”

Taken...apart? Lotte froze, eyes growing wide as she frantically turned her head as far as it could, straining her neck to look at the meat missing from her back, a scar from every single day of every single _year_ all stitched tighter and tighter together.

“You couldn’t kill her…” Baldwin stated, morbidly, “Not all at once.”

“Precisely,” Huxley confirmed, “Though I suppose the Ice-9 theory will have to be tested after all, I’ll simply start over should it fail.”

Felix flinched, shrinking further behind Bennett.

Lotte thrashed as he brought the syringe closer to the thin flesh lining her neck, kicking out at strong legs with her own, far weaker appendages and, again, attempting to dig her dull canines into the doctor’s arm guards.

“It’s alright, we all wanted her _dead_ anyways.

“She was _obnoxious._

“An absolute _pest._

“Who _destroyed_ everything she touched.

“What’s a little _pain_ to someone like that?

“It’s all the same to people who celebrated at her funeral.”

Lotte’s heart seemed to stop in that moment, “My... _birthday…”_

Huxley snickered, his laugh so loud it pulsed against her back, “Yes, A65, every year they’d celebrate the anniversary of _your_ death, my dear.”

“And you enjoyed those nights so much...poor little _brat.”_

Tears flooded down her cheeks for the umpteenth time, the horrific realisation that no one had cared she was _dead_ filling her mind with bad girl thoughts.

Dancing on her third birthday to the beat until it grew loud enough to _scream_ over.

Listening close to Huxley’s praise on her fourth, short and quiet as her body _burned._

Meeting Felix and finally telling him her name on the sixth, only to _drive him away._

And her seventh...moved down into the basement and into the _bitter_ quiet until she could no longer tell if they celebrated or not.

Lotte had the urge to bash her head against the wall again, substituting the motion by slamming her forehead against Huxley’s arm until his elbow finally dug a bruise into the surface.

Bennett and Felix seemed to share a horrific realisation in watching the breakdown, Felix rubbing at the old spot on his arm she’d hit, and Bennett remembering a late night in the bathroom and watching her lose consciousness.

Florence looked on in horror, still, remembering the pain she’d experienced on her home planet, the loss of limbs included.

Baldwin remembered a brother he’d thought was his own flesh and blood all those years, the depression he’d felt before Huxley “found” him again.

“Lotte…” She starts, but can’t find any words but one, shaking her head to displace the tears, she shakes harder, almost frantic before she finally opens glimmering, grey eyes, “Lotte is _sorry._ Lotte...Lotte will…”

She was _so scared_ , so _tired_ of being scared, so she looked up, and _didn’t_ cry, keeping her tears close and burning in her eyes, “Lotte is sorry… But...if it...make happy…”

“I will die…”

Huxley smiled something almost soft, prickling her neck with the syringe and reaching for the plunger, ready to drive it in completely, “You’ve made the right choice, A65.”

“No!” Felix shouts, barging out from behind the other three, “This...This is wrong.”

Lotte smiles sadly, “...Felix…”

He’s taken aback, and she faces him with something akin to a memory in her mind, “It...okay…, Felix… Girl...hurt…”

“Yes, you did,” he agreed, head hung low for a moment before it grew contempt with rage, “You _did,_ by _accident,_ because you had _problems!”_

Oh...he was crying, “And...and instead of _dealing_ with you- dealing with _it,_ we- We… We killed you…”

“It okay-!”

  
  
“No, it’s not! It’s not okay, Charlotte! You bruised my arm, and Bennett and I threw a saw at you! We thought _throwing a saw at someone_ was reasonable!” He seethed, arms drawn tight behind his back as he leaned over, seemingly weighed down by the tears, “We work with corpses everyday right? What’s one more? My uncle will probably _congratulate_ me on it!”

“You said sorry to us… And we just... _pretended_ you hadn’t…” Florence added, putting a hand on his shoulder, firm and present.

“I couldn’t deal with my problems, so I hurt you,” Bennett agreed, looking almost sick, _“I_ did that.”

Baldwin looked on regretfully, “I thought you killed him. Goodwin was your only friend, you made him _happy,_ but I just assumed…the other shoe had dropped, I guess…”

“You’ve been hurt, enough, Charlotte,” Felix insisted, “This isn’t penance, it’s _torture.”_

“Do not remember…” She replied simply, feeling lost. Lotte didn’t know what else to say, all she knew how to do was follow the doctor’s lead and sit still, and she couldn’t even do those right. Apologising was a second best, but she couldn’t anymore...this...this didn’t make sense. She did _something_ wrong, didn’t she? This was a bad girl consequence for all her screaming, right-?

“It’s better that she doesn’t, isn’t it?” Huxley broke in, the tenderness fading away, “Hence my modifications. Charlotte no longer exists so unless you plan to kill her and see if her Soul Data reloads, I’m afraid you’re stuck with a busted-up copy.”

“So were you.”

“Hmm? What was that?”

Bennett’s eyes were hard, “Felix is still alive, isn’t he? _This_ Felix.”

Huxley backpedaled, trying to keep control, “I wouldn’t advise-”

  
  
“Shut up,” He interrupted, turning to his shorter friend, “He’s not your uncle, and I’m gonna kill him.”

“I...expect an explanation for this,” Honikker decided, “...But I won’t stop you.”

The doctor actually cackled at this, “You’re going to kill me… Your _rescuer,_ for doing his job. Such gratitude for the man who saved you all.”

“You’re not above us…” Florence angrily shot back, “It was _your_ research that proved Overmen were the same as us, _your_ research that let Bennett suffer, and _your_ _continued_ research that constantly puts us in danger. You didn’t _‘help’_ us, you just gave us happy drugs and made us into C-Ranks!”

“More like E-Ranks,” Baldwin chimed in, hugging himself tightly, “You didn’t even _tell_ _me_ Goodwin was dead. Our _owners_ treated us better than _you,_ and we slept on their floor!”

“I didn’t force you to do anything, much less threaten you with disposal.”

“Oh no, you just _lied._ To Felix, to me, and to everyone else!” Bennett argued, picking back up his discarded chainsaw and throwing it over his shoulder, “I should have slit your throat back then, after all.”

“Very well,” Huxley seemed to concede, “I’ll simply off Miss Wiltshire here, then you can get on with your murderous business.”

“No dice,” Florence cut in.

  
  
“Well then I’d say we’re at a stand-still, aren’t we?”

“No, we’re not,” Felix’s voice cut in, his neck lined up with Bennett’s revving chainsaw blade, tantalisingly close to the edge, “I’m your legacy. And, according to Bennett, your _only_ one. You’re going to die someday, old man, do you think you’ll be able to make another _‘nephew’_ first?”

The doctor seemed shocked for a brief moment, losing the somewhat cheery persona that kept him so untouchable, “Maybe I really _did_ make you too smart.”

“Make me, huh?” Felix drawled, eyes half-lidded with boredom, “Not so hard to believe, you did tell me my parents left me with _you_ of all people to mass produce _appendices._ Which, might I add, is the worst cover story I've ever heard from someone who claims to have read Cat’s Cradle.”

“So you already knew…”

“You made me too smart, doctor. You said it yourself.”

Huxley went back to his languid smile, “Truly my greatest creation, perhaps the child made a good choice when she killed every one of your siblings.”

Felix’s face didn’t change, the doctor seemed bothered, but he wouldn’t let himself be hurt by someone like this, “We’re done here, doctor. It’s either here or floor eleven.”

The man squinted in what seemed to be his version of a glare, and finally pulled the point of the syringe away from Lotte’s neck, letting her body drop to the floor with a hard push that guaranteed a bloody nose from the girl.

He smiled as they converged on her, stepping back during the fawning, and, not caring to sterilise the needle, pressed the syringe into his neck and pushed the plunger in a swift, quick motion. The temperature of one’s body was quite hot, but thanks to a wide margin of error alongside the extreme cold of the basement room, the ice coated his veins in seconds, not stopping until one Dr. Henry Huxley had fallen to the floor, muscles violently clenched and veins completely frozen, nearly bursting with solid blood.

Lotte was alive, sitting up with a bloodied face, in a patchwork apron, with five fingers, 4 toes, one foot, one lung, and about half her natural epidermis. But she was alive, even after seven years of suffering.

Lotte wasn’t okay. But she was going to be.

And that was all she’d ever wanted.

-

Bennett had complained for at least two hours about how the Huxley popsicle was too hard to chainsaw into itty-bitty pieces. Not to mention he’d ruined his blade by trying, making only tiny Huxley particles barely the size of ice cubes. So, eventually, everyone very mutually gave up and the corpse was taken out to the curb, hidden under ten boxes of duct tape they’d never used, and then incinerated with Charlotte’s old blowtorch. The garbage men don’t ask questions in the House anyways, so it wasn't highly necessary, but it made all of the tenants feel mutually better.

Speaking of which, they’d also burned _everything_ involving Charlotte’s corpses. Okay, they hadn’t burned Aiden, but they had released him into the wild after reconstituting his mind and threatening that he never return, even if any of them had been ‘bad’ (a word of which was banned on 2F until further notice, alongside ‘good’ and ‘doctor’).

Lotte’s room was converted back into... _her room,_ having been made into a storage for a multitude of disturbing oddities belonging to Huxley. It was coated in soft, pink carpet, had a real shelf made of real wood, and just about every stuffed animal the House could provide, not including a stuffed bunny Lotte had gifted to Scarlett, who came over often for playdates.

Scarlett appreciated her baby face and sweet personality change, and while neither went to school anymore, they were often found together, with Scarlett acting as more of a defacto babysitter than anything. They both enjoyed the time though, and while Felix had a ‘tell no one’ attitude, Scarlett was basically his older sister too.

Anri had grown pure white hair and ran White Society to pay for the renovations to the school garden, and, of course, to fund her homelife and brother’s gaming addiction. She wasn’t happy like them, but having money made her smile more.

Charles hadn’t spoken to Lotte since she’d ‘died.’ Maybe he was avoiding her now because of Scarlett? It was hard to tell, but she couldn’t remember why they had been friends at all, unfortunately.

Florence and Baldwin had begun hanging out more and more, they both had the same shade of hair, and looked nearly like fraternal twins...who were sad together...and yet happy in a depressed way that could only exist in the House.

And Felix was alive where Henry Huxley was not, but he wasn’t Huxley, he was young, he was still just a kid, even. So...occasionally, just, every once in a blue moon (3 days a week or more), he’d let himself be one (again, tell no one).

No one could really forget, especially not Lotte with her missing parts, that Charlotte had died and Lotte had been tormented, but they were going to be okay, no matter how long it took.

And, finally on Lotte’s eighth birthday, she walked into a formerly empty kitchen to find a portrait lined with white ribbons, bright lights and streamers, and party music just soft enough to hear oneself think and hear balloons clunk against one another.

There was no casket.

But there was cake with a fire hazard atop it, to be handed to a child.

  
Lotte was so, _so_ happy.


End file.
